So reads our Christmas cards. The cards arrived a few days before the diagnosis and created a bitterness that is only starting to lessen.
I am resting with the boys. Miles is sleeping soundly. Ian is chewing his toes and flirting with me from his car seat. I am filled with joy and deep sorrow.
It is a good Christmas. Probably our happiest. The joy of a baby's first Christmas and the joy and wonder of a three year old. Two grown-ups quietly full of gratitude for each other and our families. I'm not sure it can be matched.
The house is full of family. It reminds me of my childhood with multi-generational holidays in tiny houses with too few beds and bathrooms. It is cozy and familiar.
But Christmas also breaks my heart. I know so many people and dear friends who lost parents at a young age. And more difficult for me these days, moms to breast cancer. Here is my thought I shouldn't have: which is worse, Ian not knowing his mom or Miles losing his mom? That thought is my Christmas sorrow. How could it not be?
I am working to refuse this sorrow. To push it away. To reject it and clear the mind.
I can see I am squaring my shoulders and leaning into the next phase, recovery. I am not as tired. The round-the-clock Christmas music is back on. I can sing lullabies to the boys without my voice breaking. I can make eye contact with Jim. I didn't cry yesterday. Jim and I are pulling together. We are writing our Christmas cards.
